


The 8th Day

by mindy_makru_tutu



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Stakeout sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindy_makru_tutu/pseuds/mindy_makru_tutu
Summary: Sexual tension gets the best of Elliot and Olivia during an eight day stakeout.





	The 8th Day

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on an Brooklyn 99 ep called "Stakeout". As it is about the professional barriers between Elliot and Olivia, Kathy is a complete non-issue. This story isn't set during a particular season so if you need to place it during their separation, then go for it.

They usually got on so well.

Usually.

Of course, usually they worked four on, four off. More often than not, their work week extended to working six or seven days straight.

The surveillance operation was meant to last two.

It lasted eight.

They started getting on each other's nerves on day one.

* * *

  
The first thing to get to her was the push-ups. The little grunt he would let out with each one. How he'd count under his breath to fifty. How he'd rip off his shirt then shift over onto his butt to do fifty crunches. With fifty more grunts. And fifty under-the-breath announcements of just how fit he was.

She understood that they both might need to find a way to expend some nervous energy while trapped in the cramped little apartment. But this little ritual seemed excessive to her. It would have seemed excessive had her partner done it just once. Elliot did it three times a day. Morning, noon and night. Sometimes he even followed-up by doing fingertip pull-ups over threshold of the bathroom door they had to share. By the end of their first day, she was finding this process downright maddening.

Glancing over her shoulder at him, she let out an audible sigh. Elliot stopped, feet dangling in the air and biceps straining. Sweat dripping down his chest and fingertips white with tension.

He sniffed and blinked at her. "…What?"

Olivia turned back to the long lens telescope aimed at the drop house. "Nothin'…"

He resumed his workout, resumed his countdown and his rhythmic grunting.

"Could you just—" her lips muttered, her head refusing to turn, "count in your head?" She paused, gnawed her lower lip then added as a grudging afterthought, " _Please_."

Elliot let out a big breath, "You bet." Then he pulled himself up by the fingertips six more times before dropping to the floor with a satisfied thump.

* * *

  
It was the little things. Like how she'd leave her teabags on the window sills. How she filled the bathroom with steam that smelled like ginger and vanilla and something else he couldn't identify. And how she snored softly in her sleep.

Olivia never snored when she slept in the crib, so why start now? Why start drawing his attention with her heavy breathing? Why start shifting every two minutes on the mattress, causing him to turn his eyes away from their target and onto her sleeping form? And while he was at it, why start moving case files from where he'd put them? Or changing the height of the stool behind the telescope? They were roughly the same height and yet he found himself adjusting the thing every time he took over from her so she could sleep or pee or shower or make another of her endless cups of tea.

"Could you quit messing with this thing?" he finally grumbled, adjusting the seat with a clank.

His partner glanced at him then flipped the switch on the kettle to make another cup of tea. "Whatever you say…"

Elliot settled into the seat, his butt remembering its previous numbness. Picking up the dry, discarded teabag from the window sill, he flung it towards the trash can by the table. And missed.

He growled under his breath and fit his eye to the telescope's peephole.

* * *

  
By day three, she'd started thinking that if she could just get out, take a stroll around the block, get some fresh air, then she'd be fine. She could remind herself that Elliot was a friend, her partner, one of the best cops she'd ever worked with. She could remind herself that it wasn't his fault that they were stuck in that dreary apartment with its peeling walls and dank smell and ominous silence.

If anything, it was hers.

She was the lead detective and the operation was her bright idea. Of course, it was hardly her fault that their dirtbag's flight had been delayed by fog. Or that he'd decided to make other more clandestine arrangements to infiltrate the US. Or that his slimy associates were so wary of detection that they refused to show their faces until their leader landed. Nor was it her fault that the relief team had been cancelled due to the precinct being chronically understaffed. All of which left the two of them in inescapable limbo. Especially since they didn't have the luxury of a busy Manhattan neighborhood in which they could go out, stretch their legs and buy some bagels unnoticed. Any little thing they did to disturb the deserted ruins where they were stationed would be conspicuous. And who knew who'd be watching, playing lookout, ready to alert their slave-trading targets of any even slightly out of the ordinary activity.

So they stayed put. In that one room with that one table laden with files and that one board pinned with brutal photos. With that one stool and that one telescope and that single mattress, thrown onto the dusty wooden floor. Their digs were less than flash and the only respite they had from each other lay in the pink-tiled bathroom, crammed with a tiny sink, shower and toilet. She figured her partner would be used to sharing a bathroom with women so she didn't think twice about washing her pantyhose and spare underwear in the sink then hanging them to dry over the shower rod.

Apparently, she'd been mistaken. Elliot didn't like having to reposition them when he wanted to wash off his workout sweat from his thrice-a-day grunting ritual. Something he expressed by emerging from the bathroom with her pantyhose dangling from one hand and two fingers of the opposite hand hooked into the strap of her spare bra. The expression on his face was both blank and aghast. She responded with one of her own. She wasn't sure what he expected of her – neither of them had packed enough clothes to last however long they were going to be stuck there.

She spread her arms at her side. "What do you want from me?"

Elliot looked at the pantyhose then at the bra then back at the pantyhose. "Wear socks?"

"Just put them back when you're done," she muttered, returning to the stool by the window that was now permanently positioned a little too low, giving her a permanent pain in her neck.

* * *

  
Fin and Munch were their only saviors. They brought fresh food, proper coffee and a short-lived reprieve from each other's company. Not to mention news from the outside world. Cragen had been trying to organize a relief team ever since the first one fell through. Every time their colleagues snuck in the back door to visit, Elliot hoped to hear that a fresh team was on the way to liberate them. Or that Fin and Munch's case had wrapped so they would be taking over.

He hoped that he and Olivia would soon be heading out that rickety door to their separate abodes. That they'd be free to pursue hot food, fresh underwear and their own beds. He imagined that somehow, the second they stepped over the threshold, all the tension between them would magically dissipate. They would smile at each other, pleased to have survived. And in time, they'd laugh about all the little annoyances that arose during their four-day incarceration. Instead, Fin and Munch told them that Captain Cragen had extended their detail for four more days.

Elliot nodded, shoulders drooping.

Munch examined him through his specs. "How're you two holding up?"

Elliot cast his partner a dark look. Even how her head tilted as she talked to Fin, how her finger pointed to a picture pinned to the board— even that little gesture for some reason irritated the hell out of him. "Olivia's driving me nuts."

Munch glanced at his watch then patted him on the back. "Ah, well, only ninety-six interminable hours to go."

* * *

  
She and Elliot celebrated their torture being prolonged by not saying a word to each other for three full hours. Elliot watched at the window while she sat at the table and reread some old transcripts of tapped phone calls, looking for something, _anything_ that might break the case and get them out of there. When his shift was almost up, she lifted her head to ask:

"Anything?"

Elliot shifted on the stool and shot her a sidelong glance. "Is there any reason I wouldn't have told you if there was?"

Olivia gritted her teeth and returned to reading.

Elliot drew in a breath and returned to watching.

* * *

  
Her shoes scuffed against the wooden floorboards and her bones creaked as she moved. He felt her approach, felt her come up beside him and stand slightly behind him. He could smell her. The dust on her clothes, the sweat between her breasts, the scent rolled on her underarms.

She tapped his shoulder, muttered, "Time."

She'd started talking in single-word sentences, her voice crackly and subdued. She sounded about as tired as he felt. Elliot pulled his eye away from the scope, gave it a rub as he straightened his sore spine. Rising from the seat, he felt sensation start to rush back into his butt cheeks. He took a few slow, tingly steps away then turned back. He watched her take a seat on the high stool, one hand running through her hair then curling around her neck.

"You'll wake me?"

His partner answered with a single word, a single syllable even. "Yep."

He headed for the mattress, unbuttoning his dress shirt. The sun was setting and the walls were tinged orange. He opened the window above the mattress and fell down onto it, stretching out then rolling onto his side. The sheets felt hot and clammy and her gingery scent seemed to have claimed them as her own. It caused a slight stirring below the belt that he stubbornly ignored, closing his eyes to find sleep.

* * *

  
Just before ten, the air-conditioning unit wheezed pathetically then died. It was the one luxury they still possessed, the last thing detaining them in civilization.

Olivia rose from the stool at the window and pinched her clothes, pulling her bra away from her body. She massaged the flesh of her ass to wake it up then ran a wrist over her damp forehead. It was the middle of night and the air was stifling and oppressive. She could only imagine how uncomfortable they would get once the sun re-rose.

Her gaze turned toward her partner. The light was low but she could still see the condensation on his clothes and skin. She could also see the slight bulge in his pants. She swallowed and turned back to the window. As she re-took the stool, she tugged her shirt out of her pants, flapped the tails a few times to fan her sticky stomach. Then she unbuttoned a few buttons, one at the top, three at the bottom. She also took the risk of kicking off her shoes with a deep sigh.

Better. Not comfortable. Not ready to chase down any dirtbags that might unexpectedly materialize. And definitely not as relaxed as her partner, lying behind her in his undershirt with his arms flung over his head, his legs spread and an erection sprouting out of his unconscious body. But still – she took a sip of cold tea – better.

* * *

  
Her hand on his shoulder, her breath on his cheek woke him. It was minty – she'd just brushed. When his eyes cracked open, he could see that her face was clear of make-up and slightly damp round her hairline, either from sweat or from being rinsed in the sink. He groaned and rolled off the mattress. She sighed and rolled onto it, squirming into position.

Elliot made himself a coffee and took his place at the window. He'd give her her designated four hours of sleep, probably more. It wasn't like there was anything going on. The street was as deserted as it had been for the last four days and three nights. All there was to do was contemplate the broken air conditioner and listen to her steady snore. At one point, he walked over to the bed and rolled her onto her side. He'd heard somewhere that that was supposed to help. Olivia's breathing deepened and softened. But then she shifted her hips in this new position, making her unbuttoned shirt slip up her body, exposing the soft skin of her lower back and one rounded hip. Elliot retreated, deciding to let her breathe however the hell she wanted to breathe.

She was sleeping soundlessly, still curled on her side, when the little hand landed on the two. He didn't wake her immediately and almost regretted having to. This was the schedule they'd agreed upon though and neither of them would last another four days if they didn't stick to it. He brought her a coffee and, when they swapped positions, he found that the damn gingery scent had intensified. He wasn't sure where it was coming from – a shampoo…body lotion…perfume…?

He fell back asleep wondering about it. Cursing it.

* * *

  
Olivia squeezed some eye-drops onto her eyeballs, did some stretches against the stool and sipped the coffee her partner had made her, all while staring out the window. It was a nice gesture, a familiar token. The steaming cup recalled all the other times they'd fought, forgiven and forgotten. It made the petty frustrations of the past few days seem insignificant. Even ridiculous. She sipped the sweet brew and vowed to do better, be more patient, less tetchy.

After all, it was a difficult situation for both of them. Put any two people in such unrelenting proximity – even people who knew each other as well as they did – and they were going to struggle, fight and frustrate. It was natural. And they were both personalities who enjoyed their freedom. It was part of what made them good detectives, part of what made them a strong team. They both thrived on the drive, the pace, the barrier-breaking that came with each compelling new case. This kind of stagnant, constricted grunt work was not their style. Particularly not his. Elliot Stabler was an active man, a fiery man, a determined man. A man… – she glanced over her shoulder at him – a man who once again had a raging erection. How the hell was he sleeping through that?

Olivia sipped her coffee, rubbed her neck and resumed watching the door she had by now memorized every last inch of.

* * *

  
He was in the middle of a dream when she woke him and not a particularly wholesome one. His eyes cracked open just in time to see her avert her gaze from his lower body. His erection enjoyed this fleeting acknowledgement of its presence, twitching buoyantly beneath the material of his pants. But then she was gone, leaving a large cup of coffee on the floor by the bed. Levering upright, Elliot hunched over his half-stiff dick and sniffed at the too-hot coffee. Then, finding a patch of vacant floor, he instantly started doing crunches. By the time he'd done his push-ups and, just for good measure, some pull-ups over the bathroom door, his erection was gone and his coffee was drinking temperature. He downed it in three big gulps then headed for the shower without a word. He removed Olivia's black bra and fleshy pantyhose without thinking about where they had been or who they belonged to. The panties he didn't touch, didn't even look at. He just peeled off his clothes, climbed into the shower and twisted the cold tap.

Emerging a few minutes later, he grunted a good morning at her and muttered something about fixing the overhead fan. It wouldn't be as effective as an air-conditioner but it was better than nothing, especially since the days rays were already streaming through the uncurtained back windows. Olivia watched him pull up a chair and stand on it. And, as he started tinkering with the wiring, she wandered nearer, standing with her face on a level with his crotch. Elliot cleared his throat then stepped down.

"'Scuse me…" he said, taking her by the shoulders and shifting her several steps away. He stalked to the bench they were using as a makeshift kitchen and picked up a knife.

Olivia retreated to the window, eating a scone as he muttered and fiddled. When the overhead fan began to spin, scattering dust and squeaking with rust, she came closer again, offering up the box of scones Munch had brought the day before. He took one and smiled down at her, receiving a completely unhindered view down the front of her barely buttoned shirt. Elliot's smile faltered, his brow crumpled and his body brushed clumsily against hers in his rush to disembark from his perch.

* * *

  
He wasn't making things easy. She really was trying to be nice.

But her partner was being an asshole. He'd been short and uncommunicative and crabby. All day long.

She'd always known he had it in him to be a complete asshole. But this really was the assholiest she had ever seen him be in all his years of being an elite-level asshole.

* * *

  
God, she wasn't making things easy. She was trying too hard. Being too nice.

Olivia Benson wasn't nice. She was a decent person. A good person. Kind, respectful, approachable, noble. She was many things he liked and admired.

But she wasn't….pleasant. And her put-on pleasantness was slowly but surely driving him up the wall.

* * *

  
She snapped. Of course she did.

On top of everything else, he kept on coming up behind her, pointing at things over her shoulder, muttering in her ear. Like she didn't know how to do her job. Like she didn't know exactly what they were looking for. Like she didn't know why they had been stuck in that dump for the past five days and counting. Like she wasn't feeling crowded enough without his body leaning into hers, his clothes brushing hers. Like she wasn't feeling clammy enough without his heat against her back, his scorching breath in her ear. Like she wasn't feeling on edge enough without his impatience, his pressure, his presence right there behind her, beside her, all over her.

Olivia raised a hand and turned. She didn't actually mean to hit him but she kind of did. The light slap of the back of her hand against his hard arm made her suck in a breath and gather herself. Sort of. "El. _Seriously_ ," she muttered with desperately clenched teeth and held breath. "Could you _just_. _Back_. _Off_."

He did, thankfully. He left her alone on the stool with the telescope and her broiling rage. Which was good. A real relief. Because if he hadn't, she totally would have hit him again.

This time, on purpose.

* * *

  
It was necessity. Nothing more. Mechanics. Biological compulsion. It had nothing to do with his partner or anyone else. It was just an act. Neither good nor bad, sinful nor pious. It was just his hand on his dick, tugging until the inevitable occurred.

Only the inevitable wouldn't occur. Not until he opened his eyes and they landed on her underwear. Not until he realized that a different bra hung where the black one had. A different pair of hose – these had a distinct ladder in them. And a different pair of panties were draped sedately over the shower rod just above his eyeline. Which meant that the other underwear, the scraps he'd so indifferently handled, were now on Olivia. On her breasts and on her legs and on her—

He gulped and rolled his head on his neck. There was something strangely erotic about her hands washing her delicates in soapy warm water, about the secret yet methodical process of eliminating her sweat and juices and scent from those sheer, lacy fabrics. Of her returning to find them dry, lifting them to her nose to inhale that insidious gingery aroma before pulling them back on her body.

Elliot turned his face into the shower spray, rolled the soap bar in his hands a few times before dropping his right hand back down again. It wasn't like he'd never thought about his partner's body before, like he'd never considered her in a sexual way. He'd avoided it – avoided it for years before realizing that it was probably better to just acknowledge and expel such impulses. It was stupid to try to deny that she was a beautiful, desirable woman. More than that. Olivia was probably the sexiest woman he'd ever met in his life. So occasionally – very occasionally, not often, not habitually – he allowed thoughts of her and what being with her might be like. Thoughts of peeling off her underwear and taking her breasts into his mouth. Of slipping inside her body and feeling her arms and legs encircle him. Of moving inside her and feeling her breath pant his name against his skin.

Of course, it would be preferable if such thoughts didn't arise when his partner was in the next room, actively being pissed with him. But sometimes, a man just couldn't fight necessity. Sometimes, it was pointless trying to refute biology. Sometimes, a guy was powerless against the inevitable.

* * *

  
A low groan echoed off the bathroom walls. Olivia paused mid-sentence and turned, her phone at her ear. She couldn't hear anything except the lethargic gush of the water – it must have been the old pipes protesting their overuse. She turned back to the window and resumed her conversation with Fin.

She knew that he had work to do, that he was just indulging her. She knew their conversation had lost any productive value over twenty minutes before. But she could hear the familiar squadroom noises in the background and Munch throwing out muffled witticisms that Fin only partially relayed. Both gave her a pang of sentimental regret. Fin was like a brother to her and Munch the insane uncle they rolled their eyes at but loved. She wished it was either of them here with her rather than her irritable, irritating partner. Or, even better, she wished she'd never conceived of this idiotic strategy to begin with. Then she could be there, with them, about to go out to the local Chinese joint, the one with the pork dumplings she loved.

She'd kill for a dumpling right about now.

She'd probably kill for a lot less.

Fin ended the call by telling her they'd come by soon with some fresh supplies. Olivia thanked him and thumbed 'end' just as the bathroom door swung open and her partner emerged with fresh skin, wet hair and a relaxed smile.

"What the hell are you grinning about?"

His face fell, his shoulders shrugged. "Nothin'."

* * *

  
He slept much better, felt much looser. Unlike his partner whose clothes were wrinkled and whose face had been set in a steadfast scowl. Part of him wanted to suggest that she take a quick masturbation break in the shower. Another part valued his life. Also, imagining Olivia naked and wet, steam swirling about her body as her soapy hands played over her breasts and between her thighs was in no way part of his current game plan. He'd only allowed those thoughts to reign for a few short minutes so that he could then put them right out of his head and get back to the job at hand.

He was here to work. Not fantasize. He wanted these scumbags. He wanted them bad. And he wasn't going to let a little thing like lust distract him when he had work to do.

Unfortunately, his partner had messed with his system and he was finding it hard to locate the files he had set aside. At some point, she'd rearranged everything – all the dossiers, transcripts, crimescene photos and evidence reports. She'd even reorganized the bulletin board in some sort of pattern that she understood but he couldn't make out. Within minutes, his irritation began to reassert itself. Within minutes, she'd gotten the better of him.

"Liv…where…?" He stood at the table and shuffled a few files about. "What on earth have you done with the Canaris report?"

From her position on the stool, she pointed. "It's in that pile."

He squinted at it. "Why'd you put it there? That's the wrong pile."

"No." She rose calmly and walked toward him, facing him across the table. " _This pile_ ," she shimmied a file out from the middle of the mound, "has all the New Jersey records."

"You rearranged it by district?"

She gave a nod. "I was working on a theory."

He put both hands on his hips. "Care to share?"

She slapped the file down in front of him. "Didn't pan out."

"Well, d'you mind if I put everything back where it was?" he asked, watching her head back to the window to resume their watch.

She lifted an indifferent hand and plonked down on the stool. "Be my guest."

Elliot sighed, took a seat and silently set to work.

* * *

  
Maybe he was onto something, with the exercise thing. After six days of unrelenting confinement, her body was suffering. It was used to pounding the streets and being constantly on the move and regular evening runs. The endless perching by the window and sleeping on a thin mattress on the floor had every part of her aching. So the next time Elliot took over for her at the window, she retreated to a corner of their room to perform some stretches. Basic, at first – twist this way, bend that way. Pull this up, that back, that around. It felt so good that she moaned with relief and kept going. It felt so good that she started doing it three times a day.

Elliot hated her little routine. Almost as much as she hated his. She could feel the annoyance radiating off him and it only compelled her to do more. To stretch longer and harder, to sigh louder and more contentedly. She hadn't done a yoga class in years but soon she was cradling her head in her hands and lifting into a headstand against one of the flaking walls.

"What's that supposed to accomplish?" Elliot asked from the window, munching on a packet of pretzels.

Olivia glanced at him from her upside-down position. "Balance. Poise. Peace."

"Uh." Elliot rose, wandered closer and curled a hand around one of her airborne ankles. He held onto it as he leaned in to squelch something near her elbow with his shoe. "Roach," he said, stepping back and releasing her. "I think there's a family of 'em living in that wall."

Olivia dropped her feet to the floor, righted herself and dusted off her hands. Then she headed for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

  
Bastard. Asshole. Sadistic sonovabitch.

She was in there right now, thinking all those things about him. And she'd be right.

The past week had been hard on them – both of them. And, if he was honest, deep down – he'd blamed her. He'd blamed her for their forced proximity, blamed her for all the arcane and convoluted things that proximity to her had made him feel. He'd done whatever he could to get by, to keep that little bit of irascible distance between the two of them. He'd done whatever he could to escape their ordeal unscathed. And maybe he still would. Maybe they would. Maybe their partnership would survive this bizarre eight-day test. But, in order for it to do so, he had to quit thinking about himself and start thinking about her. He had to remember that they were a team. She wasn't the enemy. She was his partner, his friend. His Liv.

Deserting his post at the window, Elliot walked to the bathroom door and raised his hand to knock. But the door swung open before he could and Olivia had to stop herself from colliding with him. Her body halted mere inches from his, her head jerked up and her narrowed eyes met his. He could see the bags beneath them, the set lines around her mouth. He could feel the heat coming off her body and his palms twitched recklessly at his sides, eager to draw her in, to feel that heat pressed against his. He didn't. He sucked in a breath, tried to remember what he'd been about to say to her – and failed.

Olivia murmured a tight, "'Scuse me," and stepped around him.

Elliot stood on the bathroom threshold, breath heavy, heart thumping and mind wondering how in hell he was ever going to survive another day in the company of his partner without snapping entirely.

* * *

  
Elliot let her sleep through the night. It wasn't the roster they'd agreed on and normally she'd baulk at any special allowances a male colleague afforded her. She doubted her extended sleep was due to the perceived frailties of her sex though. It was probably just his way of avoiding her.

She'd like to tell him this act of kindness/avoidance meant she woke up refreshed and ready to tackle their final day of surveillance. But instead, she woke up feeling stiff and grotty and groggy. Olivia sipped her tea at the window as, behind her, Elliot grunted through his workout. There were far fewer grunts now and much less energy put into this little routine. The days had sapped him of energy and she knew exactly how that felt.

She took another sip and glanced at her watch. Only hours to go. They had to show today. Had to. And even if they didn't, she and her partner would be gone. Out that door and back to the real world. Back to ringing phones and crying kids and unscrupulous lawyers. She almost missed it. She definitely missed the ease with which she and Elliot functioned amid such chaos, with so many obstacles creating such a safe distance between them. That was their natural habitat and, once back in it, she was sure that their regular rapport, their usual routine would reassert itself, allowing them to return to normal.

She was pretty sure it would.

She was almost sure.

She was sure…ish.

* * *

  
It was the last straw.

The absolute last.

What the hell was she trying to do to him?

He'd been watching from the window as she slowly dragged the table away from its spot under the broken air conditioning unit toward a spot under the fan he fixed. He could understand why she'd want that – there were sweat beads rolling down his chest, just like they were rolling down hers and taking up residence in the cleft between her breasts. But why on earth couldn't she just ask him to help her rather than dragging the thing across the floor on her own? Then he wouldn't have to watch his carefully constructed rows of files gradually fall out of their military-style precision and into utter disarray.

She was doing it on purpose. He was sure of it. She was going to be the death of him – the death of order, the death of self-discipline, the death of any damn cool he'd managed to maintain.

"Liv—! What—? You'll—"

He spoke too late. The pile on the far end of the table tipped and spilled and something inside him was just so happy, so relieved to finally tip and spill with it. He launched out of his seat at the window, trying and failing to catch the next pile as it too toppled to the floor. Olivia peered over the tabletop then rounded it to join him. Her hands overlapped with his as she squatted at his side, both of them grasping at the papers and photographs that had fallen to the floor. She was grabbing indiscriminately though while he was trying to keep the files in some sort of order.

He seized her wrist. "Don't—"

"I've got it," she insisted, pulling her hand from his grasp.

That same hand reached for a report lying under the table, her arm extending across his body. Her elbow jabbed his arm, her forearm brushed his thigh. He tensed and straightened, bumping her and causing her to lose her balance. All of her weight fell sideways onto him, body parts grazing other body parts and the slight imbalance of one of them creating a more dangerous imbalance in both of them. Elliot grasped a table-leg with one hand and gripped her opposite arm with the other, managing to keep them both upright. His eyes closed over as her hair brushed under his nose and his teeth grit as her sweaty body made fleeting contact with his. Neither stopped his throat from releasing a low groan that he could only hope she put down to intense frustration.

Olivia withdrew, regaining her balance and rising to her feet. She dropped the files she held onto the tabletop, watched as he gathered a few more then rose to face her. She opened her mouth to say something – an apology or an excuse or something – he didn't know, he didn't care. Because this was happening. It was always going to happen, just like that pile of files was always going to shift and slide and plunge to the floor. And, when it did, so did the last of whatever meager scraps were left of whatever the hell had been holding him back. His hand was around her neck, it was just there. It curled, tugged and then her open mouth was against his and her surprised squeak was muffled by his kiss. By their kiss. Because, in the very next instant, Olivia was kissing him back.

* * *

  
They should stop this.

One of them should definitely stop this.

Only neither of them was.

Elliot wasn't stopping it. And she wasn't definitely wasn't gonna stop it.

Because, God, she wanted his skin. Wanted her hands on his body, her mouth. She wanted a zillion things of him that couldn't possibly be satisfied all at once. So she settled for his kiss, for his hot tongue in her mouth, for arching her back as his hands slipped inside her shirt and up her naked spine. She settled for moaning her approval and grabbing his head and changing the angle of their kiss until it was even deeper and more satisfying than before. She settled for joining with him in sweeping all the files off the tabletop before she backed onto it. For using a half-empty folder as a pillow as she spread her legs and felt his weight settle between them.

His mouth instantly unlatched, travelled hot and fast down her throat, nipped at her collarbone. His hands ripped her shirt apart and his face dipped between her breasts, his tongue lapping up the moisture there. One palm stole up and covered her breast, thumbed her nipple through her bra, sending a scorching shudder down her body to her center. Her hips rose, rolling against his, encouraging the stiffness in his pants. A few more surges of his lower body against hers, a few more swipes of his thumb over her peaked nipple, a few more kisses from his mouth onto her fevered skin and she was going to completely forget herself. If she hadn't already. She was going to come. Hard. With her clothes still on. And her partner's body covering hers. And that damn phone ringing in her ear.

That damn phone that was interrupting everything.

That damn phone that was playing Cragen's ringtone.

That damn phone that was fucking well hers.

* * *

  
He watched her answer the phone, breath heavy and voice unsteady. He watched her run a hand through her hair and pull the two halves of her ripped shirt together, speaking and nodding into the phone with as much professional poise as she could muster. He watched her half turn her back to him and wander a few steps away, Cragen's commanding voice in her ear.

Her ear was red. Her cheek, neck, chest. All of her looked about as flushed as he still felt. He couldn't believe that happened, couldn't believe they let it happen. He couldn't believe how hot it was, how incredible it had felt. Nothing in his life had ever felt that thrilling. That vitalizing. That soul-satisfying. So really, what he couldn't believe was how long it took them. He couldn't believe they'd waited so long, couldn't fathom why they hadn't been doing that with each other since day fucking one. Day one of this nightmare of a stakeout and day one of their entire partnership. It seemed so obvious now, so inevitable, so futile to even consider resisting. Elliot knew he should feel grateful for the interruption, for the opportunity to collect themselves. To rethink and recalibrate their course.

But he didn't.

All he wanted was for that phone call to end. All he wanted was his mouth back on hers, her body back under his and her hands all over his body as they had been minutes before. All Elliot wanted had narrowed to the contents of that dingy little room because all he wanted in the world was her.

Olivia turned, her hand dropping back to her side as she ended the call. "That was Cragen."

He nodded once, chest still rising and falling with heavy, hopeful breaths. "I figured."

She broke eye contact, tossing her phone into the clutter on the kitchen bench. "The Feds just picked up the whole Ukrainian crew at a makeshift airstrip somewhere outside of Jersey."

Elliot nodded again and straightened his spine. "Figured that much too."

"So we can…" she crossed her arms over her torn shirt, "get out of here..." Olivia shrugged, her eyes lifting and holding his a moment. "We're released from surveillance duty."

He nodded a third time. He didn't understand why she was talking instead of kissing him. He didn't understand anything anymore. But he didn't say a thing as she ducked her head and walked slowly to the door. He didn't point out that she should probably change her shirt before heading out. Or that they needed to pack up all their equipment and crap from the stakeout. Or that maybe they should talk about what had happened not two minutes before. That glorious moment in which they both gave up all resistance and just jumped each other. Apparently, he didn't need to. Apparently, the silence achieved what words couldn't. Because Olivia paused at the door. Her hand was on the doorhandle – she'd already twisted it and drawn it open a little.

Elliot moved round the table, moved round the scattered files at their feet, his gaze fixed on her back. He waited a moment, swallowed, held his breath. One hand dropped from her shirt. The other lifted from the door handle to the wood of the door – and pushed it shut. She faced him, brown eyes wide and unblinking. Her breasts, encased in that lacy black bra, rose and fell once between the open halves of her white shirt. Then she took three swift steps toward him at the exact same time that he took three giant steps toward her.

* * *

  
He first entered her when he had her pinned against the door.

They collided in the middle of the room, picking up where they'd left off. But within seconds, her back was back against that door. The impact drove all the air out of her body and any possible pretense about where they were headed from her spinning mind. She unzipped her own pants, shoved them and her hose down to her knees then stamped them the rest of the way off. All while kissing, tonguing the breath out of her partner. Elliot mirrored her movements, matched her impatience, unzipping and shoving away his pants. They were still around his ankles when he lifted her, when his straight, hard erection nudged at her entrance. She wound her arms around his neck, her legs around his body and squirmed against the prickly wood of door to get into position. Then she felt herself sink down onto him, filled by him, joined with him in what felt like a long and satisfying full-body sigh.

Elliot groaned into her neck, his breath hot and uneven. "You'll be the death of me," he slurred into her skin, "Swear to God, you'll be the death of me…"

Lifting his face, he plucked at her lips with his – once, twice, three times. Then he pulled a little way out and pushed back in again. He groaned even louder and Olivia chuckled as she felt his powerful legs buckle beneath them. Bastard should've included some squats in his little workout routine. Ducking her head to one side, she took his earlobe in her mouth, bit the edge of it then swirled her tongue around the flesh.

"The table," she whispered, nodding her head against his, "Fuck me on the table."

Elliot kissed her jaw, slid his hands down to her ass then, in one fluid movement, lifted her away from the door and over to the table, still abandoned in the middle of the floor and surrounded by scattered files, reports and pictures. He plonked her on its surface then watched as she peeled her moist skin away from his, uncurling until she lay back on the tabletop. She adjusted her legs around his hips, nudged his butt with her heels and rolled her filled sex against his. Elliot released a low moan, his hands landing on her hips before skating up her body. She arched on the table, pressed her flesh into his hands, clenched around his hardness as he stroked her with reverent palms and inquisitive fingers. He rid her of her white shirt, unclipped her bra and threw it away. Then he planted his hands either side of her on the tabletop, kissed her once and began to move.

They started slowly, enjoying the occasional panting kiss, the sweep of a touch up and down a straining muscle. But they concentrated mostly on the friction and fullness of their joining. On the penetrating intimacy of maintaining eye contact as they finally made love. On the fascinatingly carnal movements of their partners' body as it moved with their own toward a higher form of pleasure than either of them had ever before enjoyed.

* * *

  
Her eyes skated around the room. They'd pretty much had sex on every single surface.

They started against the door. Then moved to the table. After sensing that they were both ready to move on from his slow and languid pace, Olivia had sat up and scooted to the edge. She'd slipped her arms under his and around his big, solid body, holding on tight as Elliot fucked her at the perfect pace and the perfect angle and with an indefinable brand of passion unique to him. To them. She came twice, her body convulsing, her throat crying out and her head throwing back. The second time she came, he came along with her, jerking inside of her, spilling his warmth as his clammy arms clutched her close.

After that, it must have been the window. Her palms, her breasts pressed against the glass as he took her from behind. And after that, it was the shower. Both of them were dripping with sweat and sex juices, their muscles simultaneously limp and taut. The cold water cooled them off but did nothing to dampen the fire they'd set alight. Elliot kneeled, right there on the slippery, uneven floor of the shower. He tossed one of her legs over one of his shoulders and closed his eyes against the spray. She held on for dear life as he buried his face, his nose and tongue in her folds. The first touch had made her jump, the second made her melt and every subsequent swipe of his tongue or nudge of his nose made her flush and tighten and climb closer to ecstasy.

From there, they'd moved to the bed. They hadn't even bothered towelling off. They'd just fallen, wet and entangled, onto sheets they'd shared for seven previous nights. They'd kissed until their mouths were swollen, explored each other's curves and ridges with curious, demanding hands and brought each other to the brink several times. Then Elliot had rolled between her thighs, lifted one up over his hip and pushed inside her with a deeply erotic sigh. He'd taken both of her breasts in his mouth as he moved, treated each nipple to hard sucks and punishing nibbles. After she cried out and came again, they shifted positions.

Elliot settled back, content to let her work him over as his hands roved her body, held onto her hips. She moved slow and fast, she stopped and started, she smiled down at him and managed to reach orgasm one more time before hunting down his. Eventually, she let him have it. She found the rhythm he needed and settled into it. She closed her eyes and hummed, let her hands sweep up his chest as she moved on top of his straining body. She leaned down, kissed his neck, his pecs, dragged the tips of her breasts through his chest hair. Her partner moaned and thrummed beneath her. His hands skated up her back then pushed her down on top of him as his hips rose up beneath her, thrusting in deep as he came.

After all of which, plus a sleepless night, it was probably fair that her partner – now lover – fell fast asleep. Elliot was snoring soundly beside her, spread-eagled, lax and naked, as she studied their surroundings. Olivia's gaze drifted around the apartment that had been their living hell for the past seven days and their living heaven for just one. All she'd wanted for seven days and seven nights was to get out of there. To walk out that shambley door and never walk back in again. But now….she wasn't sure she wanted to leave. Although, before they did, she was sure they could find a few more surfaces on which to work through some of the frustrations that had arisen during their week of captivity.

Her eyes slid over to the kitchen bench strewn with stuff – her phone, the kettle, a box of tea bags, a mug of pens, a notepad and a box with two hard as rocks scones. Then, rolling into her partner's warm side, she slung an arm over his chest and a leg over his thigh. She lowered her lips to his skin, gave one solid pec a feathery kiss. When she kissed him a second time, nipping at his skin with her teeth, Elliot's eyes cracked open. His head shifted on the pillow and his gaze found her. His lips curled up at each edge as he moved in to capture her mouth in a swift, deep kiss. One coarse palm ran up the underside of her arm, lifting her hand over her head and pinning it to the mattress.

Clearly, Elliot intended to keep her in bed a little longer. Which meant that any other surfaces she wished to visit would simply have to wait. But she was okay with that. Pinning her to the mattress and taking control of her naked, willing body was the least annoying thing Elliot had done in days. And since they'd finally found some sort of harmony, she felt it was best not to disturb it.

After all, sometimes a partner needed to make allowances for their other half. Sometimes one partner had to follow the other's lead. Sometimes what was best for the partnership had to come first. Both of them knew this. It was why they usually worked so smoothly together. It was why they usually got on so well. Of course, from day eight of their trial by fire onward, it seemed that they were going to be getting on even better than they ever had before. They were going to be getting on really _, really_ well. Olivia sighed and smiled, her legs wrapping round her partner's body and her eyes closing over as Elliot pinned her other hand then kissed her again.

_END._

For the rest of my SVU fic, go [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/812100/Mindy35).


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